The Thrush

THE THRUSH by EDWARD THOMAS

When Winter's ahead, What can you read in November That you read in April When Winter's dead?

I hear the thrush, and I see Him alone at the end of the lane Near the bare poplar's tip, Singing continuously.

Is it more that you know Than that, even as in April, So in November, Winter is gone that must go?

Or is all your lore Not to call November November, And April April, And Winter Winter---no more?

But I know the months all, And their sweet names, April, May and June and October, As you call and call

I must remember What died in April And consider what will be born Of a fair November;

And April I love for what It was born of, and November For what it will die in, What they are and what they are not,

While you love what is kind, What you can sing in And love and forget in All that's ahead and behind.